


Confidentiality

by sebviathan



Series: in between the lines (there's a lot of obscurity) [4]
Category: Psych
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon Dialogue, Episode Tag, Fluff, Heartbreak Ridge, Light Angst, M/M, s03e01 ghosts, some people?? use clint eastwood characters???? to cope?????
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-28
Updated: 2017-04-28
Packaged: 2018-10-25 03:01:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10755369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sebviathan/pseuds/sebviathan
Summary: Lassiter has a few sessions with a psychologist, and makes a few much-needed breakthroughs.





	Confidentiality

**Author's Note:**

> The original premise for _Hook, Line, and Spencer_ included the events of this fic, but I figured it made more sense to separate them. Either way they're definitely companion fics, so if you haven't read the other one yet, I'd recommend clicking that "previous work" link.

It's not like Carlton hasn't ever had a psych eval before. It's not like he's never been _honest_ during a psych eval before. It's not even like he can't admit that he's benefitted from talking with psychologists, whether department-sanctioned or otherwise.

But the Chief didn't call this a "psych eval." All she said was that he was going to have a "couple sessions," and he doesn't know what that's supposed to mean. He doesn't even believe he's done anything wrong! He _knows_ he may be more ready to discharge his weapon than other cops, but that has yet to amount to the harm of any innocent citizens.

So he walks out of Vick's office pissed, vaguely betrayed, and incredibly suspicious.

And he walks back _into_ the office later—not recognizing the woman sitting in the corner—even more so.

There must be something _bigger_ behind this. Maybe it's some kind of secret evaluation? Catch him off guard with a psychologist he's never met, trick him into revealing little nuances that might crack him in the long run?

It certainly doesn't help when the woman insists that she doesn't even want to write anything down, that she just "prefers just to talk."

_Yeah, right._

"How do you remember the important things?" he challenges, arms folded.

"You've heard of a photographic memory?" she says, unfazed. "Well, I have a bit of—I guess you'd call it an eidetic _tonal_ memory."

"So you'll remember everything I've said." He doesn't believe it. He _knows_ how rare that is.

"Pretty much, yes. Would you like to start?"

"Yes, first question—where's the bug?"

Carlton immediately bends down to check under the couch, and then the coffee table.

"The what?"

"The _bug_." She may be good at sounding innocent, but he still doesn't buy it. "Nothing new in this area... Must be concealed on your person," he decides.

She just shrugs. "I honestly don't have anything on me."

"Then you wouldn't be opposed to me patting you down—?"

"Actually, I'm very opposed to that." She doesn't even bat an eyelash. _Damn_ she's good.

But he has one better: "Would you be willing to submit to a polygraph?"

Now she stares at him quizzically for a moment before just... smiling. He can't tell if it's meant to come off as warm or condescending and either way he _doesn't like it_.

"You were initially expecting that I would have a recording device. Why would it bother you if I had one now—and furthermore, what reason would I have to keep it a secret?"

Carlton shifts in his seat and feels his chest tighten up.

"Maybe you want to catch me off guard," he suggests. "Statistically I'm more likely to be one-hundred-percent honest if I'm under the impression I'm not being recorded."

"Hm. Fair enough," she says with a small nod, sounding... oddly familiar. "But like I said, eidetic memory—while perhaps not digitally, you _are_ being recorded. Believe it or not, I'm content that I may not have you any more open or honest than you've been with other psychologists. All I want to do here for now, Carlton, is get to know you."

"Get to know me, huh?"

Well, _now_ the easiest solution, he decides while leaning back and returning her nod, is simply to be... someone _else_.

It's far more appealing than being himself, anyway.

 

*

 

He's watched Heartbreak Ridge about thirty times, and outright pretended to be the lead character—whether as a cover story or just for himself—at least twice as much as that. By now he's sure that he has perfectly captured Thomas Highway's nuances, so he slips into character like an old pair of shoes.

Of course, that makes every lie Carlton gives the psychologist at least halfway ground in truth, if only due to how much he relates to the character. Can he even really call it lying?

He's just in character. And he's _winning_.

At least until the next day when the psychologist pulls a fast one on him, seems to pinpoint his weakness, and asks him,

"What kind of gun do you carry?"

As self-aware as Carlton likes to think he is, he can't help it. He can't possibly pass up an opportunity to show someone his pride and joy.

"...Would you like to see it?" he asks, stiffly.

And she tells him, sounding more genuine than anyone he's ever asked that question before, "I would love to."

His hands fly to his holster with such speed to draw his gun that he's surprised the psychologist doesn't flinch, and he feels a very childlike excitement rush through him while he grins and removes the magazine.

"I picked this up with a little extra cash after I decided not to go with a divorce attorney." The words shoot out of his mouth before he can think to stop them, but he doesn't even realize he might have wanted to until—

"You're going through a separation?"

For a moment he panics, having accidentally given away actual information about his personal life, but quickly remembers that he and his character have that in common.

"Oh—well yeah. Yeah, it's—" God, he didn't think bringing it up would feel like such a punch to the gut. "You know, she went with one of these high-powered ambulance chasers, but. That's just _her_ insecurities, you know."

"You know who you remind me of?" she says almost immediately, and in spite of her smile Carlton stiffens up again.

"...Who."

"Did you ever see that movie Heartbreak Ridge?"

Well.

_Huh._

"I... yeah, I have a couple times," he half-lies, and while he knows he's essentially lost this game, he suddenly has mounds more respect for this woman. Whether she actually figured out what he was doing or not, she's _seen_ Heartbreak Ridge, and that's enough to get Carlton to bond with anyone.

"Well, I _swear_ you are the detective version of—"

"Tom Gunney Highway? Yeah, I've been told that a lot." He hasn't, but he really wishes that he had. "Honestly I—I like to imagine him as a sort of... parallel, of my own life, quite often."

Once it's all out of his mouth and the impulse is gone, he half-expects her to mock him, or at least ask if he's actively using it as a "coping mechanism" or something. But instead,

"Yeah, I see it—your time in the academy, your rise to rank _here_ , your affinity with weapons, your divorce... I don't suppose you have anyone you'd consider the Stitch Jones to your Highway? He was always my favorite—no offense."

Shit, for all the times he's thought about it... he never thought he'd be saying it out loud, in _this_ situation no less. He never knew how _excited_ he'd be to do so once given the opportunity.

"As a matter of fact, I definitely do... Younger guy, full of energy— _way_ too full of jokes, never _not_ cracking one in fact, showed up in my life in the craziest and most coincidental way... pain in my ass and partially on _purpose_ , but ultimately we're both—"

He stops himself, stuck on what he could possibly end that sentence with that would _not_ make him sound overly sentimental, and furthermore _nothing_ like Thomas Highway himself.

Not that that's really on the table anymore.

"You're both...?" the psychologist presses.

"Haven't you seen the movie?"

"I'd like to hear it in your words."

_God._ "Well, we're both, um... _rooted_ in each other's lives, I guess." Carlton pauses, during which he gets an expectant look. "I mean— _I_ can't imagine _my_ life without him being around to bother me, at least."

"And... you're not sure if he feels similarly?"

"Of course I'm not sure—I can't read minds," he snaps. "I don't care whether he does or not, anyway. I don't think he's gonna leave anytime soon so it doesn't _matter_ if he imagines me as a permanent thing in his life, or... whatever."

"...Hm." That sounds like she doesn't believe him, but she doesn't say anything of the sort. "Would you consider yourselves to be friends?"

Would he? _Can_ he? Surely, after two years—

_Hold on._

"Shouldn't you be asking me questions about my job, or... or trying to dissect my childhood, or something?" Not that he's eager to answer those, but.

"We've talked enough about your job already, I think, and if we do wind up going into your past, well... it can wait until later, or even tomorrow. Right now, I'd rather hear about your Stitch Jones."

 

*

 

However much of a good idea it might have been (for at least the past _year_ ), and as much as it's occurred to him, Carlton has never mentioned Shawn Spencer in any kind of therapy session.

And even now, he doesn't mention his name. He's been roped into "getting this off his chest" but he _cannot_ give Spencer's actual name, not even to a psychologist who has taken an oath to keep her sessions confidential. He can't. He needs to have at least _one_ layer, however flimsy, in between this and being entirely open about it.

He might not have begun to get open about it at all, really, if the psychologist didn't outright tell him,

"Forgive me if I'm overstepping, Carlton, but if you happen to be nervous about being entirely honest about your relationship with your Stitch Jones... Personally, _I'm_ not entirely heterosexual, so I'm certainly not going to judge you."

He opens his mouth to say that he doesn't know what _that_ has to do with anything, or that she's got it all wrong and his feelings may be complicated but they're not the least bit romantic, or that he's not afraid of being judged anyway—

"God, I wish that was the only problem," he mutters instead.

 

*

 

Something about this woman makes him _far_ more comfortable than he should be—not just with telling secrets, but even in general! He swears that he feels less tension in his back and neck, now, and that he's holding himself much less stiffly than before.

She asks all the right questions, and gives all the right responses. Something about her is just... _safe_.

And here he is, now, on his third session, lying on his back on the couch, hands folded over his chest... just like people do in the movies. Like he's Susanna at the end of _Girl, Interrupted_ when she finally makes an effort towards recovery. Like he's finally got someone to talk to.

"Do you know how it feels to... to look at someone, and to honestly want to _punch_ them, but at the same time you feel like—like your heart is pounding cartoonishly out of your chest. And to even worry that, that _somehow_ other people can see, that _he_ might be able to see because he sees _everything_ , and... maybe that's partly why you want to punch him?"

"Generally speaking, I can relate," she says with a soft chuckle. "For you in particular, though... that must be difficult. But it's a good thing you've come to terms with it instead of remaining in denial."

"You think so? ...At least when I was still in denial I didn't need to put _effort_ into ignoring the feelings on a daily basis, and I didn't have to get nauseatingly worried about whether or not it's mutual, and I didn't have to feel stupid for worrying about that in the first place, and I didn't have to go into every date with a voice in the back of my head telling me that ' _it's not going to work, so why try_ '—and not even because I'm just plain unlikeable, but _because I'm already in love with_ _—_ "

Horrified, Carlton stops himself. He doesn't know what he looks like right now, but he knows that he must be going through a journey of expressions that only stop when the psychologist asks, softly,

"...Have you ever said those words out loud, Carlton?"

"Which words?" He swallows.

"You know which words." There's a smile in her voice. Then, after he doesn't respond for a good twenty seconds, "You don't have to say it again. Overcoming denial isn't usually a linear thing, I'm sure you know... But to have said it aloud, even once, makes it real. That's a big step and I'm proud of you."

"Really?" he grumbles. "Because I've been told that I'm as immature as it gets when it comes to shit like this."

"By whom?"

"For starters, my soon-to-be-ex-wife. My past therapists. My mother. My sister. My partner. Several of the first-and-only-dates I've been on."

"Hm... well, what exactly do you mean by 'shit like this?'" she asks, sounding amused.

"You know..." He gestures desperately. " _Love_ , I guess."

She makes a delighted noise. "Look at that, you just said it again."

"Not _really_... At least not directly." He waits for her to respond, but she doesn't. So he feels compelled to go on: "I mean... I'm not that keen on using that word even outside of him, anyway! I'm inclined to believe it doesn't even exist, and if I do feel feelings that... _feel like that_ , I know logically that it's just some chemicals in my brain trying to trick me. Maybe—maybe it even feels good sometimes, to look at him and... and even though _this whole stupid thing's_ so complicated... to be honest with myself how I feel. But I... I don't know."

The office is silent for another minute, and whether the psychologist is waiting for him to say more or simply trying to think of a response herself, he doesn't know. But she speaks first.

"You know what? I think that's perfectly okay."

"...Hm?"

"It's perfectly okay that you don't know. You don't have to know _exactly_ how you feel yet, or if it's a good idea for you to pursue. In fact... why don't we move off of your Stitch Jones. Can you tell me what your parents were like?"

Carlton's heart jumps.

He would almost prefer to keep talking about Spencer.

 

*

 

As it's a troubling subject, she tells him to turn on a thirty-minute timer and simply talk about whatever he wants, with one condition: It must take place before age 13.

It's still crazy to him that he's telling the _truth_. It's crazy that he's willing to relay to this near-stranger how his father essentially abandoned him at a young age, and how his mother might have never hit him too hard but she left him alone far too much. How he was more of a parent to his little sister than either of them.

How he was practically friendless for the entirety of elementary school, how he was honestly just _such_ a weird and awkward little kid who was constantly paranoid about everything. How he was the biggest tattletale up until sixth grade. How he was always the tallest and gangliest. How long it took him to learn to swim. How many times he acted out on some crazy impulse and felt so humiliated that it continues to haunt him to this day.

How he brought home the best grades and it wasn't enough. How he participated in every extracurricular that was available and it _still_ wasn't enough.

The watch beeps, and Carlton instinctively sits up to put his shoes back on.

"Oh, _wow_ ," he breathes. "Oh, oh wow, I… I poured out to you secrets even _I_ didn't know I had. That was... amazing!—I mean, so… _liberating_ , to—to trust someone with your darkest, innermost secrets... Where have you been?— _why_ haven't you been here before?" he finally thinks to ask.

He realizes that he doesn't even know her _name_ , after three whole days.

"Oh, I used to be here quite a bit," she tells him. "I just recently came back. I know someone who works for the department occasionally... Actually, he's my son."

Carlton grins, and it's genuine. " _Really?_ ...You know, I know pretty much everybody who comes through the department. What's his name?"

"Shawn Spencer?"

For a very brief moment, it doesn't occur to him that that was her answer. And when it does, Carlton's smile slowly falls into abject, though contained, horror.

_She's_ _—_

_I've been_ _—_

He can't breathe.

He has been spilling his heart out—he's been spilling _his feelings about Spencer_ , most of which he has literally _never_ said aloud before, not even to an empty room... to Spencer's _mother_.

He may not have named him, or even brought up that he works for the SBPD let alone as a fake psychic, but he described his "Stitch Jones" as a snarky jerk who acts like an idiot but is in fact a genius. Who cares way too much about his hair but frankly has every right to because it _always_ looks good. Who has a joke and/or 80s movie reference for _every fucking situation_ no matter how inappropriate, and who somehow manages to make it endearing.

She would have to be a _terrible_ mother—which Carlton can't imagine is possible, considering the sessions he had—to not know that he was describing her son.

And yet she merely frowns in concern when all he does is stare, wide-eyed, back at her.

"...Do you know him?" she asks slowly, raising an eyebrow.

Well. He can't lie about _this_ , seeing as it's a fact that can be easily checked. And that's if she truly doesn't already know anyway.

God, he can't breathe.

Putting forth probably the most effort to appear unaffected he's ever needed in his life, Carlton manages to nod and say,

"Uh, yeah. We've worked a few cases together." A _few_ being at least thirty by now, but she doesn't know that.

...Or does she? Could this be some kind of mind game? She is Spencer's goddamn _mother_ _—_ it would only make sense! _Like mother like son!_

"Oh, how funny," she says. "Small world, huh?"

"Yeah." He tries to smile in agreement as he hurriedly pulls his shoes on and stands up. "Well, it's time for me to go, and—you know what, I have _really_ benefitted from all this, but I think I'm good now! So if you wouldn't mind letting the Chief know that I don't need anymore sessions..."

"Oh, of course! I'm also pretty happy with the progress we made, and I'm sure you're too busy to afford to miss more hours out of the day... It was nice getting to know you, Carlton."

She stands up with him, and extends a hand for him to shake.

And Carlton freezes not only because he's anxious to leave the room, but because he finds it _very_ hard to believe that she hasn't made the connection between the man he was talking about and her own son.

But of course, he's polite and he shakes her hand regardless, and out of aching curiosity he has to ask—

"I don't think I ever caught your name."

"Madeleine."

He nods again, and the moment their hands separate he is _out_ of there.

 

*

 

Carlton is so busy agonizing over everything he admitted in there that it's another few hours before it occurs to him—

_An eidetic tonal memory,_ Madeleine said.

Rare, but clearly real in her case. Most often passed down from parent to child.

He already knew about Henry's influence, and he's had some theories for a while, but this... this clicks about the rest into place. And _hell_ if it isn't incredibly satisfying to know, regardless of the fact that he knows by this point he's never going to bring this information to anyone.

He's just relieved to finally _know_.

...And he gets just about twenty minutes to feel relieved, before he sees Spencer walk down the hallway of the station and spots his mother with him. At once he panics and moves to hide from their potential sight—though he has no idea exactly _what_ he's afraid of. That seeing him and her son will give Madeleine the idea to yell his secrets aloud? That doctor-patient confidentiality doesn't count in the case of family?

Still, he avoids them like the plague, if only so he can think about that emotional trainwreck a little less. It may or may not make an actual difference.

For all his effort to not notice or be noticed, either way, Madeleine comes to _him_. Straight to his desk.

He isn't prepared enough to keep from looking briefly terrified.

"I just let Vick know our sessions are done, and you seem to be off the hook," she tells him, without making any acknowledgement of his expression. "For future reference, though, I would recommend _not_ pulling your gun on any more cats."

With that she smiles, and Carlton calms down quickly. But before he can thank her, she continues—

"Shawn would _especially_ not appreciate it. He's always loved cats, you know."

If that didn't make it clear, she's giving him... a _look_.

And he's... half-terrified. The other half of him is feeling something currently unnameable.

"...So, um."

He swallows. She leans down and smirks.

"Don't worry, Highway. I'm not gonna tell him."

Carlton doesn't have the chance to say anything before Madeleine winks, straightens back up, and walks away. He doesn't really have anything he wants or needs to say, anyway.

But he does relax into his seat, feeling far looser than just a minute ago, as well as an uncontrollable smile coming on.

He feels safe.

**Author's Note:**

> People tend to forget that Lassiter has CANONICALLY come into contact with literally all the evidence he'd need to cause reasonable doubt about Shawn's "psychic" ability, but never brought it to anyone, not even his partner.


End file.
